The Heart In the Handbag
by Thayne M
Summary: The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts. Eventual B/B, H/A, and Z/OC, because I like everyone to have some lovin!
1. Cocktails and Doughnut Shoppes

**Title: **_The Heart In the Handbag_  
**Author:**_ Thayne MacHern_  
**Pairing:**_Eventual B/B, H/A, and Z/OC_  
**Rating:**_PG…for now_  
**Spoilers:**_Uh…let's go with all of Season One, just to be on the safe side._  
**Summary:**_The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts._

_She had this system for getting exactly what she wanted out of people. A smile, a wink, a light brush of the fingers over the forearm. It wasn't breathtaking, and it wasn't precise, but it was practiced. Whether it was a speeding ticket or being late for something, or just not wanting to pay for her own drink at the bar, she could always count on her charm to work its wonders. Of course, not everyone could be persuaded by a pretty smile beneath lollipop-red lips and heavy-lidded amber eyes. That was how she got herself into this mess_.

--

Doctor Temperance Brennan cocked her head to the side, arms crossed over her chest, studying the specimen before her, then began walking around the metal gurney. "Male," she said as she went, gesturing to the pelvis, "Twenty-eight to thirty-five years of age. Approximately," she narrowed her eyes and Booth had to hold back a laugh; squints and their squinting, "Five-foot-eleven, one-hundred and ninety-seven pounds. Pianist."

As always, Booth was surprised to hear her so confidently match hobby to bones. She'd done it many times before, but it always caught him off-guard. "How do you know that?"

Brennan glanced at Zack, who took the hint and jumped to attention, gesturing to the spine, "Non-congenital curving in the spine is indicative that the victim spent a lot of time hunched over. Stiffness in the elbows and carpals _not_ attributed to rigor mortis suggests that he often locked the joints in one position for long periods of time."

"Maybe he was a writer," Angela suggested, "Or an _artist_."

Zack shook his head, carefully lifting one of the body's arms, turning the hand upward and gesturing to it, "There is no stiffness in the metacarpals and phalanges, which suggests he moved them frequently while his other joints were locked. When you write, or draw," he added for Angela's benefit, to which she smiled appreciatively, "Your fingers tighten around your writing instrument and your wrist moves more often."

"Okay, so," Booth said slowly, that familiar ache from too much squint-speak starting to pound against his temples, "Definitely a pianist. Cause of death?"

Brennan, who'd been circling the body during the explanation, stopped suddenly, "The sternum was cracked, and there is indication of internal scraping."

"So, he was stabbed," the agent began writing it down.

"No, Booth," Brennan stopped him, straightened herself with a wide-eyed expression, "The scraping is _against_ the inside of his sternum."

"I don't know what that means," he repeated her frequent line back to her.

Jack took the lead on this one. Even as a bug-and-slime guy, he knew what this meant, and he always liked delivering news to Booth that should have been obvious. "It means," he told the agent, "Someone fished out his heart."

--

_There was a bang, bang, bang at the door and dropped her lipstick tube on the bathroom counter with annoyance, walking through the living room and pressing herself against the hard oak, eye locking on the person through the peephole. "Open up in there," the large man demanded._

_She pulled away and rolled her eyes. Unlatching the deadbolt but leaving the chain-lock in place, she cracked the door open and smiled sweetly, "What's the problem, Ernie?"_

_Even through the crack, Ernie could see a fair amount of cleavage courtesy of the low-cut black dress she wore. His anger was gone, and he was suddenly as flustered as a prepubescent boy watching his first porno, "Look, miss, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but it's the second week of May."_

"_I'm aware."_

"_Well," he ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking away, "The rent was due at the end of April."_

_She moved her head out of his line of view and rolled her eyes, a look of deep irritation on her face, but when she looked back at him, she looked as peaceful and sincere as a sleeping child. "Oh, I feel so _stupid_! The days just get away from me sometimes. Please, come in and I'll write you a check." She pushed the door shut and unhooked the chain, then reopened it to allow the man in. Once he entered, she placed one hand on his arm and smiled sweetly, "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable."_

--

"You guys going out tonight?" Jack asked Angela as she and Brennan prepared to leave the Jeffersonian, both in flowing sticks and tight blouses, eyes admiring Angela's for longer than necessary.

The artist grabbed one arm of his lab coat and began tugging at it, "We all are. Come on. Where's Zack?"

"You really think—ow!" Jack scowled when Angela's nails scraped his arm, "Easy there! You really think Zack is going to want to go do…whatever it is you guys are doing?"

It was Angela's turn to scowl, "You really think I'm giving him a choice? Do you know how rare it is for Brennan to agree to actually go _out_ on a Friday night, even with her best friend? Its almost apocalyptic. So we are all going to go to Krenzky's Cocktail Club and eat and drink until we look like celebrities." She studied him closely, "I think you'll end up being a Danny Masterson, or maybe an afro'd Ryan Reynolds."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Yes, now repay me by finding Zack," she gave him a light tap on the rear that made him jump and look at her with wide, bewildered blue eyes. When she just grinned and shrugged, he smirked back and went off in search of the missing student.

With Jack gone, Brennan shifted nervously, "I'm not so sure about this, Ang. You remember what happened last time we went out together."

The artist rolled her eyes, "This is a much tamer place. Plus, what are the chances of us finding a mummy in a wall and inhaling meth again?" Brennan just stared, and Angela shrugged, "Okay, listen, sweetie: just don't throw anyone into anything and all entombed bodies can be someone else's problem later."

"Fine," Brennan sighed in surrender, running her hands over her skirt as Jack rejoined them, tugging Zack along by the collar with one hand and holding the other hand up to his eye for inspection. "He tried to resist," he informed them, holding his hand out for them to see, "And he bit me."

"You _bit_ him?" Angela repeated incredulously.

"I don't want to go," Zack whined.

"Hey," Brennan said enthusiastically, "If Zack doesn't have to go, then I don't have to go."

"You're both going," the artist insisted passively.

Jack frowned, "My hand hurts."

"I have to work on a paper."

"I should work on a few more Civil War victims."

"He bit me really hard."

"Professor Lichten doesn't accept late work for any reason."

"I've neglected their remains long enough."

"Do you think I need a rabies shot? Seriously, it hurts. Look at it. Look."

Angela threw her hands up in the air and let out an aggravated, "Bah!" She grabbed Jack's hand and pressed a kiss to the reddening teeth-marks, then forced it back at him. Next she grabbed Zack's hand and bit down on it, leaving her own marks there before dropping it. Finally she reached out and flicked Brennan on the forehead, her nail leaving a slight impression. When she'd finished, she stared at three pairs of shocked eyes and told them with more than a little finality, "We are all going to Krenzky's, and I don't want to hear another word about it."

With Zack and Brennan grumbling, Jack staring at the pink lipstick smudge on his hand with interest, and Angela leading the way, they all gathered their jackets and started for the door that led out of the lab. Just as Angela had pulled it open, Booth stepped through. "Are you guys going out?"

"Is there a case?" Brennan and Zack asked in eager unison.

"Yeah, Booth—is there a case?" Angela asked through gritted teeth, a scary sugar smile warding him against affirming the question.

But he did, tossing the artist an apologetic smile, "Yeah. Local authorities found him in an alleyway behind a doughnut shop—nobody comment," he ordered quickly when he saw numerous police-and-doughnuts jokes forming. "Vic's name is Ernie Hall, and he's a priority case."

Brennan was already shrugging out of her jacket and pulling her hair away from her face, "Level of decomposition?"

Booth licked his lips, "He's still…fleshy."

She stopped, letting her hair fall back over her shoulders, a confused look on her face, "Then why is he _my _priority?"

The agent handed her a manila file, and she began flipping through the pictures as he said, "Chest was opened and the heart was removed. We have a serial killer on our hands."

**A/N:  
Like it or hate it? You have to tell me, or else I have no reason for continuation!**


	2. Pie and Chinese Food

**Title: **_The Heart In the Handbag_  
**Author:**_ Thayne MacHern_  
**Pairing:**_Eventual B/B, H/A, and Z/OC_  
**Rating:**_PG…for now_  
**Spoilers:**_Uh…let's go with all of Season One, just to be on the safe side._  
**Summary:**_The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts._

Brennan sighed for about the twenty-seventh time in an hour and rubbed her left temple with her index and middle finger, "What does he want me to do with this?" She gestured to the corpse that was spread out on one of the lab's metal gurneys, flesh pale except for where blood coated it, large gut hanging over the towel they'd placed just below, for modesty. It was a little after midnight now, and the body had just arrived from the crime scene. At Brennan's warning glance, Angela had led Booth away to show him the photo composites of the previous victim—the pianist—and Zack had gone to gather the samples they'd taken from said pianist. Now it was just Brennan and Jack, who watched her with a slightly sympathetic expression.

"You're the best," he told her simply, "Everyone knows you're the best."

"Yeah, with _bones_. Does he understand that, or has he been calling me 'Bones' all this time for a completely different reason?"

Jack squinted for a moment before shaking his head, "Okay, I'm not going to touch that one. But listen," he leaned against the opposite side of the table so that he was at eye-level with the doctor, "Booth sees you as being _great_ at a _lot_ of things, so in his book, that means you're the _best_ at _everything_." The entomologist leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, "So you can do this."

Brennan sighed again, and Jack mentally tallied it: _twenty-eight_. "Okay, but what does he want me to do?"

"Look for clues."

"Great, suddenly I'm Clancy Sue," she mumbled to herself, eyes studying the victim closely.

Jack's forehead wrinkled and he cleared his throat, "I think you mean Nancy Drew…or Tom Clancy…or Curly Sue."

"Jack."

"Right, sorry," he held up his hands in a no-harm-no-foul way and went back to his microscope, lowering his eyes to examine the sample of blood he'd taken from the victim as Brennan began prodding at the fleshy corpse in front of her.

--

_She sipped her coffee, leaving a ring of bright red lipstick on the rim that she didn't bother to wipe away. The scent of peach pie wafted through from the kitchen, settling beneath her nostrils, teasing her, beckoning her, waiting for her. She raised one hand and waved to get her waitresses attention, and ordered a slice of the deliciously scented pastry, along with another coffee. "In a different cup, if you don't mind." She pressed the red-stained cup into the young waitress's hands, not wanting to look at it anymore. It was too red. Too deep. Too messy._

_Not even two minutes later, the waitress was back. She set a larger-than-usual slice of hot pie on the table, followed by a hard-plastic pot of coffee and a new mug. "Fresh outta the oven, sweetie," she spoke with a thick Southern accent, and had those soft, friendly Southern eyes that smiled constantly. "Special customer means special treatin'."_

_Her eyes slid up slowly, a dark gold and solemn, "What makes me so special?" Her words came out so rough and weak that she was convinced—for a moment—that it couldn't have possibly been her that _

_spoke them. That wasn't her; it couldn't be. She had a sweet voice; a seductive voice. She'd lured many men into her bed by that voice alone, so who was this? Who was this foreigner that had so suddenly taken up room and board in her throat?_

_The waitress shrugged, "You just look real sad, is all. And if anyone can stay sad through a cup of Mama Mars's world-famous coffee, that's somethin'."_

_She just blinked up at the waitress. This shouldn't be possible. People weren't supposed to catch her when she was weak; they weren't supposed to see. If they did, then…_

_She reached into her purse and extricated her tube of lipstick, spreading it slowly over her lips. When she'd finished, she placed a crisp ten on the table and stood, smiling sweetly at the waitress, finding her seductive voice once more. "Thank you so much, but I have to go. I'll be back in tomorrow though…Lissy," she read off of the woman's uniform, "And maybe we can talk some more."_

"'_Course," Lissy answered with a comforting smile. "You just come on by 'tween noon and ten and I'll be here."_

"_Perfect."_

--

Brennan watched with amusement as Booth fumbled with his chopsticks, "Well," she told him, handling her own utensils expertly, "The cause of death was definitely the chest wound."

Booth scoffed, chucking his chopsticks aside and reaching over the counter to grab a fork from Sid's side, "Don't be a smartass, Bones."

"I'm not," she insisted defensively, "What I meant was: he was alive when whoever killed him started cutting into his sternum." She tipped her little metal cup, spreading soy sauce over her meal.

Her partner swallowed, "Conscious?" Brennan nodded, chewing the bite she'd just taken thoroughly before answering, "Conscious and bound. That's why the marks on the flesh are so jagged; because he was struggling when his attacker started. Then the sternum was broken and death was instantaneous."

Booth grimaced and pushed his plate away. The thought of going through that, completely awake and feeling everything, made him sick. He cleared his throat and asked, "Do you have an ID on the weapon used to cut the bone?"

"Hm-m," the woman took another bite and said around it, "Zack's working on it right now."

"Okay. Any particulates?"

"Jack is working on _that_."

"Scenarios?"

"Angela is working on _that_."

"Hm," Booth put his elbows on the table and twined his fingers together, fitting his joined hands under his chin, "And what exactly are you doing?"

"Eating Chinese food," she said distractedly, taking another bit, accompanied by a big gulp of her iced tea.

Booth was about to reply when his mobile rang and he flipped it open quickly, "Booth. What? Yes. Yes, sir; I'm with her right now." Brennan looked up curiously, a long noodle half-hanging from her lips. Booth gestured to it as he continued his conversation, "Of course, sir; have it sent over and we'll be there in a few minutes." He snapped the phone shut and sighed through his nose, turning to the doctor who chose that moment to slurp the noodle into her mouth like a child. Booth licked his lips and told her, "We've got a third vic."

Brennan swallowed everything in her mouth and sat up straight, "Do I need to do an ID?"

But Booth was already shaking his head, "Its another fleshy. They got identification from her pocketbook: Lissy Williamson. Guess what her chest is missing?"

**A/N:  
Okay, I know that, in the first two chapters, not a lot has happened. But I wanted to really set up the killer details before I got into the major plot part. But the next chapter will start giving some clues and answers, as well as a few warm-fuzzy moments with a certain couple. I'm not going to tell you which couple, though. Because I am horrible.  
Remember to R&R, or else Thay-Thay stops writing!**


	3. Jazz and Lipstick Stains

**Title: **_The Heart In the Handbag_  
**Author:**_ Thayne MacHern_  
**Pairing:**_Eventual B/B, H/A, and Z/OC_  
**Rating:**_PG…for now_  
**Spoilers:**_Uh…let's go with all of Season One, just to be on the safe side._  
**Summary:**_The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts._

"What've you got for me, Hodgins?" Brennan stood next to the man, buttoning her lab coat and pulling her hair from beneath her collar. She and Booth had just returned to the lab from Wong Foo's, and the team was already busy in preparation for the incoming victim.

Jack held up a plastic bag, "A few orange fibers."

"Cat?" Booth asked, sliding his card through the detector before walking up to the platform.

"Carpet," Jack corrected, putting the bag back down and crossing his arms, "Nothing special about it. It's the same plastic construct as most cheap carpeting in the country, just a really ugly colour. However, Angela did tell me to send you her way; she has a face for our first vic." The partners nodded and made a quick pace to the artist's office, where she was standing in front of the Angelator, waiting with a proud little smirk. "Got 'im," she said as soon as they entered.

Booth nodded, "Let's see it, then." Angela pressed a few buttons on her tablet and a face began to form before them. It was a handsome young man, with curly blonde hair and soft golden eyes. The artist then pressed another button, bringing up an actual photo of the man, "And I identified him. His name is James Marsters; he's a pianist at a jazz club called Yogie's."

"James Marsters," Booth's forehead wrinkled, "Isn't that the name of that actor?"

"An actor?" Brennan asked curiously, still studying the photo.

"Oh, yeah!" Angela said excitedly, "He was in that one show that was really popular a few years back. Um…what was it called?"

Booth snapped his fingers, trying to think, "I know which one you're talking about. The one with the, uh, the supernatural stuff."

"Yeah, and it had that really good-looking dark-haired guy in it. God, what was it called?"

Seeing that this was quickly beginning to steal their focus, Brennan held up two hands, "Murder victim, remember? Not an actor."

Booth shook his head, as if trying to make himself stop thinking about it, "Right, right. Angela, can you give us an address for Yogie's? We'll go talk to the owner." The artist nodded as the two started to leave the office. Then, suddenly, Booth turned and snapped his fingers again, "Smallville."

Angela snapped her fingers back at him and pointed, "That guy 'Brainiac.'" She looked back at the photo, "Yeah, that's not him."

Brennan rolled her eyes, "Good to know; come on, Booth." She pushed him lightly, then called over her shoulder, "Oh, and Angela? Have Hodgin's examine the bruise we found on the victim's hip."

--

_She sighed and leaned her head back against the cool brick of the club. Even through the wall, she could hear the noises from within; the sound of sweet jazz, similar to the Sam Cooke songs her mother used to play every Sunday. This was where she'd first met James. This was where their eyes had met from across the room, his over a baby grand and hers over a third gin martini. He'd had the softest, kindest eyes that smiled at her, even when his lips were too busy whispering the words to "What A Wonderful World." _

_He'd been so handsome, and so in love with her. They'd kept it a secret, because house musicians weren't supposed to be involved with regulars, but that made it even more exciting. Sneaking off between sets for an exchange of kisses and sweet words before leaving in opposite directions, always with the promise of meeting back at his place later._

_Then he'd ended it. He'd met someone new, he told her; a stronger, more beautiful woman that could give him everything he'd ever wanted. And no matter how she tried to lure him back—no matter how sultry her voice was, calling out to him—he would deny her again and again until she finally had to concede that it was really over. Then everything had gone wrong, and she hadn't been able to go back into the club since._

--

Booth and Brennan sat side-by-side at the counter, each with a drink in hand. After speaking to the owner—Yogie Anderson-Hall—and getting nothing more than "nice guy" and "great pianist" and "no enemies," they decided that they deserved a little alcohol. Not enough to do any damage, because they still had a long night ahead of them, but definitely enough to burn their throats. Brennan sighed and dropped her chin into her hand, "That was a waste of time."

Booth was about to agree when he looked up and, on the opposite side of the bar, caught the eye of a young woman. She was staring at him with nervous lips and sad eyes, thumb unconsciously running over the side of her glass again and again, collecting condensation. The agent stared back, but said to his partner, "Maybe not," and nodded discretely across to the other woman.

The doctor looked at the person in question, who suddenly averted her eyes and started toward the back door. Booth and Brennan stood in unison, her following the woman as he went for the side door to cut her off once she was outside. The young woman had just put a hand on the door when Brennan grabbed her shoulder and jerked her back, turning her, "Hey."

The woman immediately began struggling, "No, let me go; I don't know anything!" She broke free and turned back, only to see the door replaced by Booth's large frame, blocking her escape. He smirked at her, "You've got a funny way of showing it," and then put one hand between her shoulder blades, leading her back toward the bar.

After some calming, a glass of whiskey, and a formal introduction to the woman named Elizabeth Ordain, they were able to get some answers. "Did you know Mister Marsters," Brennan asked after a few minutes.

The woman nodded slowly, keeping her eyes forward. She swallowed, "He's my big brother. Well, not," she shrugged, "Not _biologically_. We met about eight years ago, when he was twenty-two and I was thirteen. I was supposed to start private music classes with him but had to cancel because my dad got fired from his job and we couldn't afford it. I went to go ask him for our down payment back, and he looked at my hands and asked me to play a few warm-ups on the piano, and then he told me he'd teach me for free. He said I had," she studied her long fingers, "Perfect piano fingers. After that, we saw a lot of each other and when my father…" she swallowed and shook her head, "When my father died a couple years later, James took me in so I could stay in DC. We relied on each other; we really became just like brother and sister."

Seeing tears in the woman's eyes, Brennan made her voice as soft as possible, "When did you last see him, Miss Ordain?"

She sniffled, shaking her head, "Um, about…six or seven months ago?"

"And you didn't report him missing?"

She licked her lips and shook her head, "He's taken off before; it's a musician thing. Sometimes, he takes off for months at a time and I don't know where he's been until he gets back." She tipped her head 

back, draining what was left of her drink, then slammed the glass down, "But this time… Well, he's never been gone this long."

Brennan glanced at Booth, who nodded at her and she said, "Miss Ordain—I, along with my associates, recently discovered the skeletal remains of a murder victim, whom we have identified as…James Marsters."

Elizabeth's eyes widened so far that Brennan feared—against all her rationality—they might fall out of her head. "My—my _brother_? No. No, that can't be right. Are you sure it wasn't the actor, or—"

Booth cut her off, "I'm sorry, Miss Ordain, but Doctor Brennan identified him as a pianist being of the same age, height, and weight of your brother."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Brennan added. Elizabeth stayed very still for a long beat before whispering, "I have to go." She gathered her jacket and purse and started for the door, leaving the partners behind, each completely silent, as they often were after informing someone that a loved one had passed.

Finally, Booth said, "She was sleeping with him." Brennan sighed and stood, heading for the door the other woman had so soon before passed through. Booth got up and followed her, calling, "What? Come on, you know you sensed it, too!"

--

_They found his body. They knew he was dead, and they'd identified him. Soon, they'd trace it all back to her, and she couldn't have that._

_She pressed two fingers on either temple and began massaging gently. _Think_, she demanded of herself. She had to think carefully, and quickly, or else she'd never get herself out of this one._

--

"Why do you always assume everyone is sleeping with everyone?" Brennan demanded incredulously as she and Booth approached the platform, where the rest of her team was working. They'd been bickering about this the whole way back.

"Why do you assume they aren't?"

"Because there are no facts to back it up," she stated simply, looking over a sheet of paper Zack handed her before nodding and shooing him away. She turned back to Booth, a little smirk on her face, "Know what I think?" She lowered her voice considerably, "I think you always jump to the 'sex conclusion' because you're a typical man and it's always on your one-track mind." She brought her voice back up to its normal tone, "She was not sleeping with him."

Booth shook his head with an irate chuckle and leaned forward, placing his hands on the railing behind the doctor, one on either side of her, boxing her in. "You know," he lowered his voice just as she had, but his was more alluring than hers had been, "For a cynic, you seem to give a lot of people the benefit of the doubt." Brennan opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came to mind. He was just a little too close for her nerve endings, and they began to spark to life, sending a little shiver through her entire body. Of course, it didn't help that he was staring down at her now, studying her, trying to figure her out. And it _really_ didn't help that she couldn't stop staring back.

"Doctor Brennan, I have the—" Jack started, only to be silence by Angela, who'd thrown an arm across his chest and shot him a warning glance.

But the spell was already broken. Brennan placed two hands on Booth's chest and pushed, hard, moving him a safe distance away from her, a blush staining both of their faces. The doctor turned to her associate and asked, "Hodgins?"

The man in question looked at Angela, eyes apologizing, but with a small glint that alerted her to the fact that she was still practically holding him in her arms. When she pulled away shyly, he turned back to Brennan, "I have the particulates from Lissy Williamson. She had the same orange fibers, but these were stuck under her nails."

Brennan took the bag he handed her and studied the carpet pieces which, sure enough, had a few slivers of skin attached to them, "How'd they get there?"

"The most logical explanation," Jack told her, half-distracted with the knowledge that Angela was studying him now, thinking he couldn't _feel_ her eyes on him, "Is that she was being pulled, and dug her nails into the carpet to make it harder for the killer to move her."

Brennan nodded, handing the bag back, "Good work. Now, did you figure out how the victim got that bruise on his hip?"

Jack nodded, biting the inside of his cheek, "Yeah, I looked at it, but…it wasn't a bruise."

Everyone stopped, and Booth asked, "Then what was it?"

The entomologist gestured to Angela, who'd identified the discolouration for him. She nodded and pulled up the photo on one of the computer screens, "We thought it was a bruise because it didn't rub off, but its actually," she paused, "A kiss."

Booth blinked, "Ex_cuse_ me?"

The artist nodded, tracing the shape with her finger, "It's a lipstick mark. It didn't rub off because its one of those cheap, staining brands. So we're either looking for a Doctor Frankenfurter—"

"I don't know what that means," Brennan muttered.

Angela went on as if she hadn't heard her, "Or we're looking for a woman."

**A/N:  
Okay, I had to put the James Marsters stuff in there! I was watching The Capture of the Green River Killer, and he was all pretty and, like...Ted Bundy-ish. (Probably because he was playing Ted Bundy, but hey, what do I know?) And I thought it would be funny to throw him into this chapter. :D  
R&R, mah peeps! --Yeah, I am definitely too white to say that.**


	4. Blushing and John Coltrane

**Title: **_The Heart In the Handbag_  
**Author:**_ Thayne MacHern_  
**Pairing:**_Eventual B/B, H/A, and Z/OC_  
**Rating:**_PG…for now_  
**Spoilers:**_Uh…let's go with all of Season One, just to be on the safe side._  
**Summary:**_The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts._

"Squints, meet Lissy Williamson," Booth said an hour later, when the victim had been spread out on one of the gurneys.

Brennan snapped on a pair of latex gloves and put her hands on her hips with a sigh, "Zack, I want you to get all of this clothing off of her—carefully; don't compromise the evidence—and see if she has the same lipstick marking on her as—what?" She asked when Zack shifted uncomfortably.

Jack, in one of his rare moments of sympathy, licked his lips and nodded, "Um, Doctor Brennan, I can do all that. Zack told me he still had some bone work he needed to do with the original victim." Brennan glanced back and forth between them for a few seconds before she shrugged and nodded, grabbing the artifacts box for the current victim to take to an examination room, Booth close behind.

Once she was gone, Zack turned to his friend, "Thankyou, Hodgins. I just don't feel—"

"Look," Jack held up one hand to stop him, his voice stern but not unkind, "I know that skin isn't your area of expertise, but this is the profession you chose, and it sometimes comes with a little bit of flesh to the bone. And if you're going to do this, then there is no room to get all bashful about a naked dead chick." Zack took in a breath and glanced at the body, then closed his eyes and nodded. Jack patted him on the shoulder, "I'll cover for you this time, but next time, its all you. Right, man?" Again, Zack nodded and then walked off of the platform.

Jack smirked and shook his head, then turned to start carefully cutting the blouse and skirt from the dead woman. That's when he heard, "That was nice of you."

He jumped, the scissors falling from his hands and hitting the floor with a loud _clank_. When he knelt to lift them, his eyes caught a pair of slender legs on the other side of the gurney, and he gulped before straightening, a put-on smile on his face, "Well, I guess I'm just a nice guy."

Angela scoffed, "No, you're not." Jack shrugged and started cutting at the clothing again, and the woman asked, "Why did you do it?"

"Drop the scissors? You surprised me."

"Why did you _cover_ for _Zack_?"

Jack was suddenly incredibly focused on removing the victim's blouse, "It wasn't a big deal."

But Angela reached across, covering his cutting hand with hers to stop him, and stayed like that until he looked up at her, his blue eyes bright and innocent. "Jack. Really."

He sighed and let go of the scissors, pulling his hand from beneath the artist's and leaning back from the table. When he spoke, his voice was soft and lacking in its usual sarcasm, "He's a good kid; he just has a lot to learn."

"I know."

"He's like a brother to me. I mean, I know I give him a hard time, but he's sort of like," a shrug, "The only family I've got." He swallowed roughly, and Angela was silent for several beats. Jack very rarely spoke of his family, and when he did, there was usually no emotional attachment. For the first time, the artist began to wonder how much Jack had loved his parents, and how sad he still was to have lost them.

Slowly, she circled around the table until she was standing next to him, and she leaned forward slightly to whisper, "Hey, that's not true; you've got Brennan, and you've got me."

Jack smiled and let out a little chuckle before turning to look into her eyes, his own sparking once more with the usual humour, "I don't like to think of you as family."

Hurt flickered across her face, "Why not?"

He laughed again and reached up, pressing one finger against the corner of her mouth and pushing on it until it turned up in a smile, "Because that would make things _very_ awkward for me." He stared at her for only a second longer before he leaned forward and picked up the scissors again, stripping Lissy Williamson of the rest of her clothing and immediately locating a red smudge on her right hip. All the while he took still shots of her body for the evidence file, Angela stood where she'd been, a mix of shock and flattery written across her face. She barely moved or spoke at all until Booth came back in to inform them that Brennan was falling asleep at an examination table, and they could all call it a night.

"Where are you off to, Zack?" Jack called out to the friend currently heading to the door.

Zack stopped and turned, "Oh. I, um, called a taxi. I am going to go to a bar and attempt to engage in typical conversation with a person of average intelligence."

Jack nodded, running his hand over his beard, "That's cool, man. Um, one question… Why?"

The grad student shifted uncomfortably, "Because that is what people do to function in the world outside of the lab." He raised an eyebrow, "Why does Angela look like someone struck her?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder, as if just noticing this, "Huh; I dunno." He looked back at his friend, "Well, have fun, man. Call if you need a ride home." Zack nodded and left, and Jack turned around to smile at Angela, who blushed and looked away.

--

_Sphila. What a drag. No one interesting ever came through the South Philadelphia Bar & Grill; only the usual idiots and one-night-standers. Still, this was the only other place in DC with a decent jazz lineup, and since she couldn't go to Yogie's anymore, her options were very limited._

_Suddenly, the seat next to her was occupied—Sphila's was often crowded on Thursdays, because it was Coltrane night. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see it was a young man. Not handsome, really, but cute. More of a Stephen than an Alec, but hey: a Baldwin was a Baldwin. He ordered a vodka straight, which surprised her; he didn't look like he could down any kind of hard liquor. But he did, lifting the glass of clear liquid to his lips and downing it quickly, eyes moving around, as if he wasn't used to being out in public._

_When he'd finished drinking, she smiled sweetly and said in her most alluring voice, "Hi, there."_

_He jumped, like he didn't know anyone had been sitting beside him, "Oh, hello."_

"_Can I buy you another?" She gestured to his empty glass._

_He twitched ever-so-slightly and looked her over, "Um…you are a woman of surprisingly attractive features and presumably average intellect." He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, then opened his eyes and grinned nervously, "Yes, please."_

_She laughed seductively and gestured to the bartender before asking, "So, what's your name, cutey?"_

_He cleared his throat and stuck out his hand, "Zack. Zack Addy."_


	5. Late and Playlist Kisses

**Title: **_The Heart In the Handbag_  
**Author:**_ Thayne MacHern_  
**Pairing:**_Eventual B/B, H/A, and Z/OC_  
**Rating:**_PG…for now_  
**Spoilers:**_Uh…let's go with all of Season One, just to be on the safe side._  
**Summary:**_The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts._

Brennan circled Lissy Williamson's remains for about the seventy-fifth time and checked her watch again: 0924. She sighed impatiently and looked up at the rest of her team, "_Where_ is _Zack_?"

Jack shrugged, "He said he was going out last night and he wasn't home when I went to pick him up this morning." The entomologist's voice sounded nonchalant, but there was a fraction of worry there that could not be fully disguised.

"He didn't go home?" Brennan repeated to clarify.

Jack shook his head, "Maybe he—" he began scraping dried dirt from the victim's skin to distract himself, "Maybe he picked up some little cutey with really low standards and a really good buzz and spent the night at her place." The three squints exchanged looks, each ranging from doubt to concern to irritation, and let the subject drop. Brennan began examining the weapons markings on the sternum while Angela collected data for the reconstruction and Jack studied some minerals beneath his microscope. Silence passed. Silence and time. Soon, it was noon and they were breaking for lunch, and the young grad student was still unaccounted for.

Angela found Jack in the lounge that overlooked the lab platform, chewing slowly on a turkey club, face glazed over with preoccupation. She sighed and placed her drive-through bag on the table, settling into a seat across from him. "Hey," she said softly, as not to startle him, "Worried about Zack?"

His attention immediately flooded back and he put a little smirk on his face, waving it off, "Nah. Just hope he's having a good time with whoever's got him so held up, and I hope that Brennan doesn't fire him for it."

The artist was quiet for a beat, then licked her lips and tilted her head to the side, "You don't _really _believe Zack spent the whole night and morning out with some girl, do you?"

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but one look from Angela silenced any argument he had. The most empathetic person he knew was less than three feet from him; he couldn't lie to her. Not only were the words stuck in his throat, but he knew he'd never get away with it, even if he spoke them. Instead, he reached across to take her hand, looking for that same comfort she'd offered the night before. She let him take it without protest, squeezing his back and offering a encouraging smile. Jack nodded slowly and said, "I have to believe it. Thinking anything else is just… Its not an option."

Then she said the two words the man hardly ever heard. Not in work, not in opinions, not in relationships. She blinked heavily at him and said with all sincerity, "I understand."

--

_She almost felt bad for the guy—lying there, limp and lifeless in the backseat, flesh pale and cold. Perhaps it _was_ sympathy; why else would she have kept the body in her house so long after she'd finished with it? Why else would she have taken so long to load it into her car? He'd been sweet—they'd taken turns buying each other drinks and discussing music and (as his main area of interest) science. They'd gone back to her place at her own request, and he'd been so shy and gentlemanly about it. It was charming, and she'd really liked him. But now, it was back to business. Now, she just needed a place to dump him and drive off and never think about him again, like she had with all the others._

_He'd mentioned working at the Jeffersonian Institution. She could drop him there, in a place that was comfortable and familiar for him. After all, she always liked people to be comfortable when she left them. She'd left Ernie in his apartment, and Lissy at the diner; why not give Zack the same courtesy?_

_Making up her mind, she drove into the heart of DC, locating the Jeffersonian and parking in one of the lower levels of the garage complex. Before she started unloading, she glanced up at the rearview mirror. In it, she had two views. One was of herself, with drab blonde hair and pale lips that she hadn't bothered to colour yet. The other was of him, a mess of limbs in the backseat, like a discarded ragdoll. He really had been sweet, and she began to wonder if he'd deserved what she'd done to him._

If ever a time to get caught_, she thought, sighing to herself. She'd always known it would happen eventually; that she would find that one person worth her pity, and she'd end up surrendering._

_Taking a napkin from the glove box and a pen from her purse, she scribbled her name and where she could be found before pressing the paper into Zack's cold, unmoving hand. Then she got out and opened the back door, slipping one hand under either of the man's shoulders and pulling him out of the vehicle._

--

"What've you got, Angela?" Brennan asked the young artist, who stood before a computer at the platform.

She screwed up her face and tilted her head to the side, "Its not exactly my area of expertise, but I'd say it was a combination of blunt force trauma and strong knife stabs that opened the chest. As for the heart," she swallowed, "It looks like it was fished out with a sharp, curved instrument."

"Like a scythe?"

"More like a spade."

"A," Brenna repeated slowly, "_Spade_? As in, the gardening tool?"

Angela nodded and shifted nervously, "Yeah, but—you know, like I said—this isn't what I do. You'll still need to have Zack double-check it; I could be completely off."

"Doubt it," Jack reported, holding up a sheet of paper, "The particulates found on all three victims are congruent with that of someone who'd been lying on the floor of a gardening shed."

Angela pointed on, "That doesn't mean that the weapons were necessarily—"

"I also," he cut her off, "Found the same minerals—planting soil, fertilizer, seeding—on the _inside_ of the victims." He put his hands on his hips, "Whatever killed our victims spent a lot of time in the ground."

Brennan nodded, but said, "Still, I'd like to have Zack confirm the findings." Then, as a quiet afterthought, she added, "If he ever gets here."

"Doctor Brennan!" They all turned to see the grad student walking through the door, hair a mess and skin so white he could have been mistaken for a snow drift. He was struggling to get his pass card off to slide through the machines. Once he did, he walked up onto the platform and spoke in a rushed, worried voice, "I apologize. I have no excuse for my tardiness this morning other than human error; I should have known better. And while I would completely support the logical decision to terminate my internship here at the Jeffersonian, I strongly hope that you will reconsider and give me another chance on my word that it will not happen again."

She held up a hand to stop him, "Zack."

"Yes?"

"Were you with a woman?"

He pressed his lips together as if he didn't want to answer, but finally said, "Yes."

Brennan dropped her hand and shrugged, "Okay then." She gestured to the computer screen, "I need you to check Angela's weapon theory and let me know what you find out, okay?"

Shocked, he sputtered, "Y-yes, of course, Doctor Brennan. R-r-right away." When she smile and walked away, he let out a deep breath, "I cannot believe she didn't fire me."

"Yeah," Jack feigned a couple of chuckles, "Lucky you. Okay, listen: here's the new deal," he grabbed the lapel of his friend's lab coat and pulled him closer, "From now on, when we're working a serial killer case, you flip open that nifty little cell phone I bought you and _call_."

Zack frowned, "I am an adult, Hodgins."

"Really? Because staying out all night and coming in _six and a half_ hours late to work seems like a pretty juvenile thing to do." He let go of the younger man and started walking from the platform.

"You do it all the time," Zack called after him.

Jack called back, "Yeah, but I never claimed to be an adult," then rounded a corner and disappeared.

Angela stood slowly, tightlipped, and gave Zack a little pat on the shoulder, "I'm glad you had fun last night, sweetie. I'm, uh," she gestured over her shoulder, "I'm going to go talk to him."

"Thankyou."

She nodded, "Oh, but, for the record," she inhaled and forced a smile, "You ever make us worry like that again, and you won't have _means_ to stay out all night with a woman. Understand?" The young man shook his head slowly, and Angela sighed, "Just…don't do it." When he nodded in agreement to this, she gave him one more firm pat on the shoulder and went off in search of her co-worker. After she'd gone, Zack began looking over her results. As he leaned forward to examine a marking, he felt something press against his chest. Reaching under his jacket and into the pocket of his flannel shirt, he extracted a crumpled napkin that read: **Olivia, 413 West Banks Plaza, 555-7014**. He smiled to himself and smoothed out the creases, setting the napkin up next to the computer, like an award.

--

_She shouldn't have done that. She shouldn't have let herself get emotional about what was only meant to be another in a long line of victims. She'd let herself be caught. And if she didn't stop this soon, she'd be convicted, too. All over a Stephen Baldwin with green ears and floppy hair._

--

Jack sat at his workstation, eyes narrowed in on a mineral he couldn't place, music pulsing from his iPod's external speakers. He knew he'd been a little harsh with Zack, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He hadn't been lying the night before, when he'd told Angela that the kid was basically his only family. He was like a little brother, or a son that he'd had at a _very_ young age; he was protective of him. He worried about him probably more than he'd ever admit to himself, and the bundle of emotions at finding him safe and sound had flooded out in anger and sarcasm. Then again, most of his emotions came out like that. Still, he knew he'd have to apologize later. He just couldn't now; he needed time to cool down—time to himself.

"Hey." Which he obviously wasn't going to get.

"Hey," he answered, not looking up because he knew it was Angela, and he knew why she'd come, "Is this the part where you tell me he didn't deserve that and I should march right back in there to beg his forgiveness?"

She sat down in the chair beside him, "Nope. This is the part where I tell you that he _totally_ deserved that, and if you apologize, I'll hit you with my purse…which I have been known to carry bricks in."

He looked up, a smirk on his lips but a bright smile shining through his eyes, "Seriously?"

"Okay, well not really _bricks_, but—"

"No," he laughed, "I mean, you don't think I was out of line?"

She shrugged, "Not at all. You were worried, and Zack should have known better. I especially liked the 'I never claimed to be an adult' part."

He wrinkled his nose and looked away, "Yeah, that was just—what's wrong?" When he turned back, her eyes were squinted and she looked like she was concentrating, trying to figure something out.

A small, devilish smile began to spread across her face, "Hodgins… Are you listening to Clay Walker?"

He suddenly looked horrified, as if he'd forgotten his music was still playing. "No," he said a little too quickly, but it was pointless. The lyrics had already begun, and Angela was swaying back and forth mockingly.

"_She knew she caught my eye, and that was all it took. Ain't it strange how forever changed with just one look?_"

The sight of Angela trying not to laugh brought a blush to the entomologist's face and he dove for the iPod, but she'd already lifted it and was playing the next song. She laughed and pushed at him as he tried to wrestle the device from her hands, "'Fidelty.' Wow; I never pegged you for a Regina Spektor fan."

"_I never loved nobody fully; always one foot on the ground._"

"It's a decent song," he defended through gritted teeth, still trying to get the iPod from her.

But she was on to the next song, "'I Alone,' by Live? Good one."

"_I alone love you. I alone tempt you. I alone love you; fear is not the end of this._"

And then the next, to a little squeal, "The Mighty Lemon Drops; I love them. Hey, and 'Inside Out' is my favourite of theirs."

"Yeah, good song," Jack finally got a grip on the iPod, only to have his arm clawed by Angela's long nails.

"_You can't stop my heart from turning inside out. Try and stop my world from turning inside out._"

"Something Corporate? Who're they?"

"_Its been a bad day—another bad day—and all I wanna do is look at you and know I'm okay._"

She flipped one more song and frowned, "The acoustic version of 'Everlong,' by Foo Fighters. Okay, what is up with this playlist?" She pushed the button to take her back to the Playlist section.

Jack's voice was almost pleading now as he lunged for his music player, "No, don't do th—" but she already had, and stilled. Her eyes were wide and one hand was over her mouth. The playlist he'd been listening to was titled **Angela**. All of those songs—the theme of the lyrics—were songs that made him think of her? That was…_uhh_. She looked up and suddenly became all-too-aware of their position. She was leaned back against the metal table, one arm still stretched away to keep the iPod from Jack and the other holding the hand that was fitted over her lips, which she dropped accordingly. Jack was close from all his attempts to get his music, and their proximity was just so that they could feel each other's breath on their faces. Angela's was soft and confused, while Jack's was rough and uneven, heavy and anxious as he studied her, his blue eyes pouring into hers. She matched his gaze with one of even strength, but one that said…well…that she had no idea _what_ to say.

But at least she owed it to him to try. "Jack, I—" but before she could say any more, his lips came down on hers, strong and hard. And then, before she could react, he pulled away completely, standing to put a few feet of distance between them.

"Angela," he looked ashamed, "I am _so_ sorry; I shouldn't have—"

"Its fine," she whispered, eyes still wide, trying to assess her feelings.

"No," he shook his head, "I had no right. You should kick me, or hit me with your brick purse, or—"

"Jack," she said, firmly this time, "Its really okay."

"Yeah?" She nodded and he let out a deep breath of relief, then smirked nervously, "So, um…_how _'okay?'"

"Well, you didn't exactly give me time to figure that out."

Jack's eyebrows shot up at her suggestive tone, and then he was moving forward and she was standing to meet him. His arms were winding around her waist, and she reached down to press the Play button and activate her playlist once more, then slid her hands up his chest to hold his shoulders. Slowly, Jack's lips came down on hers once more, this time patient and gentle, reveling in the softness of the ones that 

kissed back. Angela's hands moved up even more until they were in his hair, grabbing great tufts of brown curls, arching against him as the kiss deepened, turning into tongues and sighs as music filled the room that seemed to be in a completely different dimension now.

"_I don't know you, but I want you all the more for that. Words fall through me, and always fool me, and I can't react_."

Jack groaned when Angela tugged on his hair, and responded by pulling her hips against his, eliciting a shaky moan from the back of her throat. One of his hands moved to bury itself in her hair, angling her head just right, allowed him to deepen the kiss even more.

"_Falling slowly—sing your melody; I'll sing along_."

Angela pulled back, not wanting to surrender to the burning in her lungs that meant she needed oxygen, but it was soon unavoidable and now she was gasping for air, panting against Jack's shoulder. In return, he held her closely, not wanting to let her go but recognizing his own need to breathe.

The artist laughed suddenly, "I love this song."

Booth walked over the platform, but found only Zack, staring longingly at an wrinkled napkin, "Making progress, Zack?"

The young man jumped, "Oh, Agent Booth! Um…well…"

Booth stepped closer and read the ink on the napkin, then grinned and clapped Zack on the shoulder, "You know what? Take your time." He laughed and stepped down, circling around the lab to look in the examination rooms, searching for his partner who'd disappeared from her office. He heard music and followed the sound, then caught sight of Jack's curly hair. He was about to push open the door to the room when he saw that the _rest_ of the entomologist's head was attached to a woman's. Booth couldn't see her face, or much of her at all, but decided that it probably wasn't a good idea to interrupt.

He tossed one of his dice into the air and caught it with a hard snap, _Isn't _anyone_ around here focused on catching a serial killer_? This thought, however, slowly transitioned to, _Is _everyone_ around here getting lucky except for me_? He rounded another corner and finally spotted Brennan, hunched over a table of bones, hair down and hiding her face, no doubt searching for anything she may have missed.

Booth pushed the door open and grinned at her focused form; she didn't even look up. "Bones," he called out to her in a soft, sing-song voice, "Your team is sex-crazed today." When she didn't answer, he asked, "What? No lecture about biological urges and serotonin?" Again, no reply. He took a few steps forward and leaned down, "Hel_lo_? Bones? Yoo-hoo?" Still nothing. Very softly, he brushed the curtain of hair away from her face and found that she'd dozed off, one hand on a femur while the other supported her chin. Booth smiled and stared at her slumbering features a moment longer before gently lifting her from her chair and carrying her to the couch in her office. Once he laid her down, he couldn't help but study her. She was usual hardened, focused so intently on something that little wrinkles formed everywhere, cluttering her face. But now, far away in anthropology dreamland, her face was peaceful. It was soft and smooth and he could easily admire all of her delicate features. Slowly, his eyes trailed down from her face to her well-kept body and then he looked away guiltily. If Brennan ever found out he'd been ogling her while she slept, he was pretty sure he'd be put down for a nap he'd never wake from. Still, he couldn't help but run a gentle hand over her temple, down to her cheekbone, before brushing it back through her hair. He smiled when she let out a little noise that almost sounded like a coo, and then left her to catch up on what he assumed was some _long_ needed rest.

**A/N:**

**I know! I'm sorry; I suck. I just really needed a good **_**fluff**_** chapter!**


	6. Shivers, Shakes, and Speeding Tickets

**Title: **The Heart in the Handbag  
**Author: **Thayne MacHern  
**Pairing:** Eventual B/B, H/A, Z/OC  
**Rating:** Still PG.  
**Spoilers:** All of Season One.  
**Summary:** The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts.  
**Special Note:** Okay, I am going to apologize for this chapter in advance. I haven't worked on this fic in _months_, and I kind of forgot where I was going with it. So I'm getting reacquainted, and that's why its sort of scatterbrained. Please forgive me, and try not to judge too harshly. I'm workin' on it!

--

"Sweetie." Angel a shook Brennan's shoulder gently, pulling the doctor from her dreams. Her eyes opened slowly, heavy with fatigue and glued to each other by a thin layer of eye mucus. She blinked a few times before her eyes could focus on her best friend, and her brow immediately furrowed, "Ang?"

Angel a smiled in return, "Yeah, it's me; I'm sorry to wake you, but Zack confirmed my weapon assessment, and he thinks he knows exactly what did it."

Brennan blinked again and stood quickly, stifling a yawn and brushing the wrinkles from her clothes. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Well, its six now, so…about three and a half hours?" When she received a scowl, the artist rushed on, "You looked like you were sleeping so well, I couldn't bear to wake you. In fact, I would have let you go on a while longer, but Zack is doing that puppy-who-has-to-pee thing that he does when he wants to tell you something _exciting_." She emphasized the word sarcastically, rolling her eyes for good measure.

Brennan pulled her slightly-mussed hair back into a low ponytail as she headed for the door, throwing over her shoulder, "You should have woken me up as soon as he figured it out."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"I'm serious, Ang, you should have—wait," she stopped by the steps that led up to the platform. Her face was confused, "How did I get to my couch? The last thing I remember was examining Marsters's bones—did Hodgins carry me?" She couldn't understand the sudden red that painted her friend's cheeks at the mention of the entomologist, or the way she looked so guilty as she shook her head. She laughed a little, "What's up with you?" Jack chose that moment to waltz over to the edge of the platform, humming the tune of "Falling Slowly" under his breath. When he caught sight of the two women, he immediately froze and turned the same shade as red. Brennan looked back and forth between them, completely lost now, "What is going _on_?" Jack's eyes darted around and he shrugged, turning quickly to rejoin Zack at the table that held Lissy Williamson's remains, while Angela smirked feebly.

"Sometimes, sweetie," she placed a hand on her friend's shoulder, "I love how imperceptive you are." There was no hint of sarcasm in her voice, and she walked away before Brennan could inquire.

"Hey!" The doctor called after her, only to be ignored, "Angela! What're you—Angela!"

"She kissed Hodgins," a low voice said in her ear, making her jump. She turned and found Booth smiling at her, holding two cups of coffee. "For you," he handed her one. "I called to see if you'd rejoined the land of the living and Angela said she was about to wake you up, so I thought you might need coffee."

She took the cup, her long fingers brushing over his as she did so and she mentally scolded herself for reacting to the brief contact. Proximity to Booth had never caused any physical reactions before, but lately it was happening all the time and she didn't know why. It wasn't rational. "Thankyou," her voice was rough, and she was suddenly glad she'd been allowed to sleep so long, so she could tell herself that it was sleep that made her voice so uneven. Then his words finally hit her, "Wait—Angela kissed Hodgins?"

Booth nodded over her shoulder to the two in question, carefully avoiding eye contact but smiling to themselves. "You really _are_ imperceptive." He laughed and walked past her, joining the squints on the platform. After a moment and a gulp of hot coffee, Brennan followed.

--

_She reached up, her fingers curling over the eaves of the small shed, searching for the hidden key. She found it and unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping inside. She didn't turn on any lights—she just closed the door behind her and sat down in the middle of the dirty floor, hands folded in her lap._

_She came here often—in fact, she'd been here just a few days ago—but it felt new each time. Even as she'd developed unconscious rules for herself—never coming during the day, never turn on the lights, be as quick and quiet as possible, then get the hell out—they didn't make the visits seem any more like habit. This was her place. James had introduced her to this place on their one-month anniversary—the small gardening shed nestled in the wooded area behind his house. He'd found it during a walk, and he said it would be their getaway from then on. And it had been. They'd spent hours upon hours huddled together on the cold concrete floor of the tiny shed, pretending the rest of the world didn't exist, laughing at the gardening tools that had been left behind and joking about plotting a vegetable patch._

_She sighed and it sounded too loud in the darkness, echoing off of the shadows. She leaned forward, toward the ho that was propped up against one wall. She ran a finger over its edge, collecting the sticky substance there, and grimaced, shaking her head. She stood, disgusted with herself, and started to leave. On her way out, she kicked the ho over and it clattered to the floor._

--

"A ho," Zack said surely.

"The chick you shacked up with?" Jack said, surprised that his friend would use such a vulgar term to describe her.

The intern rolled his eyes. "The murder weapon," he clarified, "Was a ho. The woman I spent the nightwith was _not_ a ho."

"What do you mean," Booth raised his eyebrows, "Like, a gardening ho?" Zack nodded in confirmation. "She was killed with a ho?" Another nod. "How do you kill someone with a ho? I mean, really—when you think ho, you don't really think of murder. How do you even come up with the _idea_ of killing someone with a ho in the fi—"

"Okay," Brennan held up one hand to stop him, miscalculating his proximity to her and her fingers brushed against his chest. She gulped and forced herself to focus, "Stop saying 'ho.' Zack," she nodded encouragingly to her intern, "Please explain." As Zack launched into a long, complicated explanation, Brennan found herself distracted. Booth had moved closer still, as if the nearness would somehow help him understand the medical jargon, and his shoulder was brushing against his partner's, warmth seeping through his jacket and tingling against her bare arm. Brennan had to wrap her hands tightly around her coffee cup to keep herself from reaching out to him, and this desire scared her—this was _Booth_, for crying out loud. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes and inhaled—he smelled thick, but sweet, like cinnamon and gunpowder. Familiar. Again, against her mind's command, she found herself leaning back slightly, putting more of her weight against his shoulder in an inconspicuous way. Oh, what was going _on_?

"So," Booth cleared his throat as Zack finished—was Brennan imagining it, or did he sound as rattled as she felt? "Definitely a gardening—" he casted a quick look to his partner and said pointedly, "_Tool_." The squints all nodded, and the G-Man copied them, a little twinkle in his eye, "Well, that's good! That's something, at least. Let's, uh," he checked his watch, "Let's call it a night, huh? Bones?" He turned his cocky, charm-all-the-ladies smile on her, "Dinner?"

She blinked and her hand went to her hair, to push a stray strand from her face. Misreading this action, Booth said, "You look fine, Bones." It was loud enough for the others to hear, but low and close enough that his breath sent an almost invisible shiver through her. But she could feel it, and for once in her life, she had no idea how to react. So she did the only thing she could think of—she shrugged her shoulders lazily and mumbled, "Sure."

Zack smiled, practically bouncing, "Perhaps I will make dinner plans of my own." He reached into his pocket and extracted the wrinkled napkin, smoothing it out meaningfully.

"And I'm kind of in the mood for pizza," Jack said slowly, eyes on Angela. In a faux-dubious way, he asked, "Say, d'you want to join me?" She smirked and nodded, and they all slowly separated. Brennan blushed as Booth helped her into her jacket, Angela smiled as Jack's hand brushed against hers, and Zack picked up the phone at his station and dialed a number.

--

_She twisted her hair around her finger and smiled through her cherry lips. "Oh, now, can't you give me one little bitsy break?" Her smile transformed into a practiced pout, "After all, I wasn't going _that _fast." She leaned a little further out her car window, giving the officer a better view of cleavage. This was a daring act, and she was mainly working from stereotypes. The officer's hair was short and neat, and she wore no makeup or jewelry—she was basing the outcome of this exchange on these things, praying that her assessment was right and her attempts would not turn up fruitless._

_The officer was still for a moment, then a lopsided smile took her face, "A break, huh?"_

_Success! The cherry smile appeared again, "I would be so, _so_ grateful."_

"_Yeah?" The officer pushed a hand through her cropped hair, "How grateful?"_

_Instead of answering, she laughed and took a pen from her pocket, then scribbled a little note on the ticket that had been meant for her. She handed it to the officer with a sly grin, "How about we meet here at eight and you can find out for yourself?" The officer raised her eyebrows and smiled back, taking the piece of paper and nodding. "Tonight, then." She turned and went back to her cruiser, pulling away and passing her a moment later._

_She leaned her head back against her seat and sighed—another person to take care of. When would people wake up and learn to stay out of her way? She was tired of hurting people. It was hard to keep up._

_Just as she was about to start her car again, her mobile rang and she quickly flipped it open. "Hello," she answered in her usual seductive way. When a familiar voice answered, her voice became uncharacteristically sweet and foreign to her own ears, "Hey. Did I get you in trouble with your boss? No? Oh, I'm glad." She glanced up at her reflection in the rearview mirror and it suddenly seemed all wrong. That sweet, innocent voice shouldn't come from those candy-apple lips. It was horrifying. She reached up and scrubbed away the lipstick with the back of her hand before answering a question posed to her through the line. "Dinner? I'd love to," she stopped as she remembered what had just taken place. "But," she quickly corrected, "I have to meet a…business associate. How about a late drink at Sphila's?" They agreed on ten o'clock and hung up, and she hurried into action._

_It was seven now—she would meet Officer Lews in an hour. That only gave her one hour to prepare, and then two hours to get the job done. She'd never cut it this close before. Her familiar patterns were shifting all because of one night with a charmingly naïve science geek._

--

**A/N:**  
So, scatterbrained, just as I said. But I'm going to work on it, and try my damndest to make sure I don't let it just drift off again. Okay? Okay. Leave those shiny reviews I love so much—lack of love is what caused me to take such a long break between chapters in the first place! Everyone needs love!


	7. Interlude and Changes

**Title:** The Heart In the Handbag  
**Author:** Thayne MacHern  
**Pairing:** Eventual B/B, H/A, Z/OC  
**Rating:** Still PG.  
**Spoilers:** All of Season One.  
**Summary:** The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts.

--

"This is different," Brennan noted, draping her jacket over the back of her chair. Usually, she and Booth ended up at the diner, or at an Asian restaurant. In fact, the only time the doctor could remember coming to this Italian restaurant with her partner was after her father killed Inspector Kirby and she'd been upset; it was where he'd opened up to her. "_Temperance_," he'd said in that rare, soft voice that said he was being completely sincere, "_You are not your family. You are not damaged. Your life is your own, and you're an amazing person. You did that, all by yourself_." She wondered what reason he could possibly have for bringing her here now.

"Yeah, well, you know," he shrugged, opening his menu, "Sometimes it's nice to change."

Brennan thought about recent events, and how just the nearness of Booth seemed to put her nerves on alert. There was a scientific rationale for this—she knew it back and forth—but she couldn't remember what it was. Could Booth really be affecting her ability to think? She'd heard people describe attraction like that before, but she always assumed it had been a courteous exaggeration. Apparently not. "Yeah," she said quietly, hoping he didn't notice the way her voice shook, "Sometimes."

--

"This is different," Angela gave Jack a lopsided smirk.

He smiled back, "What makes you say that?"

The artist rolled her eyes and leaned back against her couch. They were sitting on the floor of her cluttered apartment, a large pizza between them, music playing softly in the background. "Please, Hodgins," she scoffed, "You're not going to try and tell me that _this_," she gestured around, "Is how all your first dates go."

He laughed and shook his head, "No. But, then again," his eyes caught hers and smoldered with seriousness, "I didn't want this to be like all my other first dates."

Angela laughed to cover up the sudden anxiety that shook her. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

Jack didn't laugh back. His sapphire-blue eyes continued to pour into hers and he scooted a little closer, "Only the ones I care about."

"Oh, yeah?" She tried to keep joking with him, but she felt her face becoming serious and her voice getting low and shaky, "So how many times _have_ you said it?"

"Including now?" He moved closer still and she did the same. When Angela nodded, Jack shrugged infinitesimally, "Once." He closed the distance between them, one hand immediately tangling in her dark hair as he kissed her softly. She responded as if it was the most natural thing in the world, hands curling behind his neck, kissing him back.

She broke away for a breath, "Once?"

"Once," he swore, and she kissed him again, stronger this time, more passionate.

--

_She approached him, knowing his form even from the back. He was the only one at Sphila's that looked vastly out of place, thin and rigid in his chair. She ran her hand over her face one last time, making sure every trace of lipstick had been wiped away—she didn't want to be that person with him. She didn't know why._

"_Hey," she said sweetly, sliding into the seat next to his at the bar, "What're you drinking?"_

"_Hello!" There was a certain degree of surprise in his voice, as if he hadn't really been expecting her to show up. She felt herself smile. "A seltzer; I can't afford to drink like I did last night."_

_She laughed at this. He hadn't been drunk the night before, but apparently the alcohol had had a certain affect. She held up one hand to the bartender, "I'll have what he's having." The words left her mouth before she even realized it. She never just drank seltzer—she was a tequila girl. How did this happen? Fifteen minutes ago, she was disposing of another body. Now, she was drinking seltzer and listening to a gangly grad student talk about the individual pros and cons of Stargate: SG1 vs. Stargate: Atlantis. And when she leaned forward after a while and kissed his cheek, it didn't leave a stain._

--

"So he stands up, but the mud is so thick that his shorts don't come with him!" Brennan smiled as Booth gesticulated his way through the story, "And he's standing there in nothing but his tighty-whities and he looks at us, and he looks at the cops, and he looks at all the mud around him and he says," he shook his head, "And I kid you not, Bones. He says, 'What can I say? I had Mexican for lunch.'" He collapsed into a fit of laughter, shoulders shaking violently. Brennan found herself laughing along, despite the tension she'd felt all night. Halfway through the main course, Booth had taken to telling her embarrassing stories about his brother, each more hilarious and humiliating than the one before.

Brennan got her laughter under control and took a sip of her wine. "What did the police do?"

Booth smiled at her, "Well, they were going to arrest him, but they decided that the whole thing was so insane that he'd been punished enough." His laugh faded as he took a gulp of his own wine—another odd change, because he usually opted for beer—and he said, "Tell me some funny stories about _your_ family, Bones." She tightened up immediately, pressing her lips together and looking away. Booth sighed, "C'mon, Bones—you know, you _did_ have a life with them before they disappeared. Fifteen years, in fact. Something funny must have happened."

"I don't remember," she said shortly.

"I repeat: _fifteen years_. You have to remember something."

"I don't," she said, a little more forceful this time. "I had a life with my family, then I turned fifteen and they were gone, and I was in the system. All I can remember is the bad stuff that came after—not whatever good stuff might have come before."

Booth blinked at her, taken aback by the outburst. Then, slowly, he reached across the table and took one of her long, slender hands in his own and ran his thumb over the back of hers. Her eyes snapped up, blue fire, burning through his own dark brown irises. His touch was sending electricity through her entire body, and she was gripping her wine glass so hard she feared it might shatter, so she released it. "You should try, Temperance," Booth told her with a kind smile, "Remembering the good stuff is a lot better than remembering the bad—it's just harder, sometimes."

--

"Okay, can't breathe, can't _breathe_," Angela pushed on Jack's chest a little, and he pulled back, smiling apologetically. They were still on her floor, though more horizontal than before. The pizza had been pushed to the side, forgotten completely, and they'd been kissing feverously for the past twenty minutes.

Jack waited all of two seconds before asking, "All better?"

It wasn't. Angela's lungs were burning from oxygen deprivation, but her body wouldn't let her voice this concern. Instead, she told him, "Yeah, all better," and kissed him again, rolling so that she was on top now, holding his face in her hands.

--

_Her head was on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, and they were staring up at his ceiling. She snuggled a little closer, tracing patterns against his bare chest, and thought about how truly peaceful she was. She hadn't felt like this since that first night with James. _James_, her heart ached at the name and she pushed it from her mind. He seemed to sense her distress and kissed the top of her head, holding her all the more tightly. This man wanted to protect her—why in god's name would _anyone_ want to protect _her_, she wondered. But he did, and she found that she really liked that feeling. Her eyes felt heavy and she began to fall asleep, nestled against his chest._

--

Booth pulled into a space in front of Brennan's building and cut the engine, opening his door wordlessly. "Booth," she told him, "You don't have to walk me up."

"Of course I do," he smiled that smile again, "I'm a gentleman." She rolled her eyes but said no more. She let him walk her to her floor, then to her front door, both silent the whole way. When they finally arrived, Brennan took out her keys and fit one into the door, but didn't unlock it. Instead, she turned and said, "Thank you for dinner, Booth." She expected him to smile or say something funny, like he usually did, but he stood perfectly still. His eyes were dark—almost black—and cloudy, as if some internal war was waging within his mind. "Booth." She took one step forward and wrapped a hand around his elbow, her voice quiet and careful, "Booth?"

He moved his head slightly, so that his eyes were watching hers, and he began to lean forward. Brennan's breath hitched, but she didn't move—whether this was from shock or because she really wanted this, she wasn't sure, but she didn't move. Not even when his lips were a mere inch from hers. Quite the contrary, she actually felt herself moving closer to him. She was about to kiss Booth. For the first time in her life, she was about to kiss a man that she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, cared for her more than himself. And she was shocked at how comfortable that made her.

His breath was warm against her lips, seconds away from sealing the deal. Then a loud jingling interrupted and he pulled back quickly, looking frazzled and embarrassed, apologetic and enraged all at once. He flipped open his mobile and answered it, his voice raspy and raw, "Booth."

As he listened to the voice on the line, Brennan flattened herself against her door, head down, breathing deeply to try and even out her heartbeats again. What was going _on_ today?

"Yes, sir," he snapped the phone shut and turned to his partner, looking suddenly tired and worn out. "We've got another body."

--

"Mm," Jack groaned as Angela scratched her nails lightly over his bare chest. They'd somehow made their way to her bed and shirts had been lost, and they were now in the midst of a great kissing-and-touching war. In retaliation, Jack traced the delicate line of her jaw with his tongue and she sucked in a deep breath, fisting one hand in his hair. Oh yeah. This was fun.

"_The man in the back said 'everyone attack,' and it turned into a ballroom blitz_," Angela's ringtone sang across the room. She whimpered, recognizing it as the tone that sounded when Brennan called, but didn't want to move from Jack's strong arms. Finally, the song played out, only to start again.

"Ugh," she groaned, rolling off of the bed, raising protest from Jack as he was left empty handed on her sheets. She held up one finger to him and answered her mobile, "This better be damn important!" She was silent for a moment, her eyes wide, and she frowned, "Oh, god. Yeah, we'll be right in… What? Oh, I meant me. _I_ will be right in, and I'll, um, _call_ Hodgins. Yeah." She hung open and sighed to the man in her bed, now staring at her with worried eyes.

"What is it, Ang?"

She walked back over to him and, after planting a quick, hard kiss on his lips, began slipping her shirt back on. "We've got another body in the Heart Snatcher case."

--

Zack had just slipped into dreamland when the trilling of his landline jerked him back to consciousness. Reaching across to his nightstand carefully, so as not to wake the woman who slept so peacefully against his side, he picked it up and whispered, "Zack Addy." He ran a hand through his guest's hair as he listened carefully, "Okay, I'll be right in." He hung up and sighed, wiggling out of two arms and whispering to her, "I am needed at work."

"Mfkaydunbtlong," she mumbled incoherently.

His eyebrows raised. "You are sleepy and your thoughts are not focused, therefore…I have no idea what you just said."

"I said," she rolled over and blinked heavily, still not fully awake, but not as groggy as before, "'Okay, don't be too long.'" Then she smiled a sleepy smile and Zack nodded to her, dressing quickly before departing, catching a ride from an extremely sleepy, irritable housekeeper, as Hodgins didn't seem to have returned home yet.

--

_She rolled over, tasting the pillows of his wide bed. Surely he'd run off to work. They'd found another body. Of course._

_This was getting far too complicated._

--

**A/N:**  
This was a fluffy interlude. Yay or nay? Lemme know!


	8. Fighting and Zack's Sheets

**Title:** The Heart in the Handbag  
**Author:** Thayne MacHern  
**Pairing:** Eventual B/B, H/A, Z/OC  
**Rating:** PG.  
**Spoilers:** All of Season One.  
**Summary:** The team takes up a case, in pursuit of a serial killer whose calling card is the removal of human hearts.

--

Booth and Brennan sat in the SUV. They'd received the call about the fourth victim over twenty ago—it had taken them the usual fifteen minutes to get to the Jeffersonian, but instead of going in immediately, they sat in silence for several long minutes. Finally, Brennan rolled her eyes and told him, "Booth, this is ridiculous. We are two rational, intelligent people; we should be able to talk about this."

"Talk about what?" He grunted, but they both knew he wasn't fooling anyone. He sighed and cleared his throat, "Yeah, you're right."

"I usually am."

He gave her a sidelong glance and cleared his throat again, hands tightening over the steering wheel. "I guess I just don't want to hear it."

She turned her head to look at him, brow furrowed, "Hear what?"

"Whatever speech you've got to rationalize what…" He trailed off, licking his dry lips, "We almost kissed, Bones."

Before he could go on, his partner interjected, "_You_ almost kissed _me_." Whatever else Booth had been planning to say, he stopped short. Brennan couldn't understand the way his jaw snapped shut and his eyes narrowed, turning to stare her down harshly. She didn't know what, but she was smart enough to realize that she'd probably said one of those things that offended him, when it was just a fact to her. Yes, she was smart enough to know, but too stubborn to apologize for it.

"Right," Booth said, his words sharp and bitter, "I apologize." He popped his door open and slipped out, slamming it behind him, his shoes making a gentle _clack_, _clack_ against the concrete of the parking structure. After a moment, Brennan followed, running to catch up with him.

"I upset you," she deduced.

"No, I'm fine," he struggled to make his voice match his words, but he wasn't the only one who could see through people's lies.

She made a noise that sounded like a growl. "I hate it when you do that, Booth! I wish you would just tell me when you're angry with me."

"I'm not angry with you." This one wasn't a lie. He really wasn't angry, but then, he was so rarely ever angry with his partner. As they reached the structure's elevator, he ran a hand through his hair, "Let's just drop it for now, okay?"

Brennan stared at him until the elevator dinged open, then nodded slowly, "Fine. For now."

As soon as they were through the doors of the Medico-Lab, Angela had planted herself in front of them. "Um, guys?" She shifted nervously, wringing her hands together, "Booth, in particular—are you guys in a good mood?"

"Yes," Booth answered in unison with Brennan's, "No." They glared at each other before Brennan broke eye contact and told her best friend, "Booth is in a bad mood." Though the agent wasn't happy she said this, he was pleased—and somewhat surprised—that she didn't say the reason for his irritation.

"Ah," Angela shifted again, "See, okay, um…maybe you should stay here, then."

"What?"

"I'm just thinking," she flipped her hair over her shoulder and glanced back at Hodgins, who looked a little nervous himself. She turned back to Booth, "Maybe you shouldn't see the body yet." Booth gave her a crooked look before brushing past her and stepping up to the platform, sliding his keycard in along the way. Once there, though, he stopped, realizing why Angela didn't want him to see the body. He heard Brennan step up behind him and let out a little "oh." There, cold and motionless on the gurney, was a woman with short black hair, pale white skin, and—the thing that drew Booth's focus and made his anger peak—wearing a nighttime-ocean blue uniform. A cop.

--

_She rolled over in the bed, pulling the sheets along with her, twisting herself in a sort of bed-burrito. By now, he would be standing over a new body. A police officer. How long before he realized she was to blame? She really should get up. Dress. Leave. Escape before he figured everything out and turned her in. But she couldn't. She was too damn tired, and his sheets smelled too damn good._

--

"We've gotta get this bastard," Booth said furiously, pacing back and forth on the platform.

"We will, Booth," Brennan replied calmly, hooking a finger through the waistline of the deceased officer's pants and nudging them down just enough to find the dark red stain on her hip. She straightened up and put her hands on her own hips, "Okay, remove the clothing, collect particulates, and look for anything different. Anything at all." Jack and Zack nodded together, both setting off to do as she instructed.

The special agent ran a hand over his face, still fuming. "A cop. She killed a _cop_. We need to stop this maniac; she's gone too far now."

Brennan stiffened, eyes wide and incredulous. "_Now_? She went too far the moment she drove a ho into James Marsters's chest, Booth." These words together should have been funny, but they weren't. They were angry and serious.

Booth turned and moved so his body was close to hers and he was glaring down at her, "This is a cop, Bones."

She matched his glare. "Marsters was a pianist, Hall was a landlord, and Williamson was a waitress; does that make them less important to you?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did," the anthropologist snapped, eyes still burning into his. "You know, if I die, I hope you take an interest right away instead of waiting around for Cullen to get chopped off next."

"First of all," he rolled his eyes, "Its 'knocked off.' Second of all, you're way out of line."

"Am I?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she lowered her voice, but the way her blue irises shined so sharply, she may as well have been screaming, "At least _you_ know _why_." She snapped on a latex glove and moved around him, examining the splintered bones in the corpse's ribcage while Zack worked around her, cutting at the clothes. Booth took several deep breaths before turning and leaving the platform. He needed air.

An hour later—near midnight—Jack practically jumped onto the platform, grasping a small vile in his hands. He looked around, "Booth's not back yet?"

Angela glanced at Brennan, who didn't react, and shook her head. "No, he hasn't even called."

"Call _him_," the entomologist ordered. When no one moved, he snapped, "Now!"

Brennan looked up then, brow furrowed with fatigue and immense irritation, "Hodgins, I would appreciate it if you kept in mind that you work under me, and not the other way around."

He held up one hand in a no-harm-no-foul way and shrugged, "Fine. As long as you keep in mind that I am very good at what I do. And," he tossed her the vile and she caught it reflexively, "We're one step closer to catching this son of a bitch." Brennan looked down at the vile, then back at Hodgins, then to the vile again. Finally, she stepped down off the platform and went to her office, picking up the phone there.

"Booth."

"It's me," she said in a short, no-nonsense way, "You need to come back in."

"Why?"

"Hodgins found something he thinks will help us catch the killer."

"Okay." But his voice trailed off like there was something more he wanted to say, and he didn't hang up immediately.

Brennan couldn't stop the bit of concern that rose in her chest, no matter how annoyed she was with her partner. "Is something wrong?"

He inhaled audibly, "Uh…yeah, Bones, I'm—" She knew him well enough to know he was running a hand through his hair—that short, dark, soft hair and _what was she thinking_?! "I'm sorry. You were right, earlier, about the other victims. And I was just kind of bent out of shape because of what you said in the garage—"

"What did I say in the garage?" She was honestly confused.

He laughed ruefully, "We'll talk about it later, okay? Just, for now, accept my apology?"

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, even though he couldn't see it, "Sure."

"Thanks," his smile could be heard through the phone line. "I'll be there in a few minutes." They rang off and Brennan sat down in her chair, studying the vile in front of her. It seemed empty, but she wasn't as focused on it as she was pretending to be—Booth had apologized. They were okay. Part of her was overjoyed, but the other part was upset. Now she was back to wanting him again, back to feeling she had no control over herself.

--

**A/N:**  
They really are getting closer. There are only a few chapters left. OOOOOH!


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